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VVVV

CHAPTER TWO

"I despise ties," Sherlock growled at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace as he secured his black bow tie. "Remind me of nooses."

"Since when have you been squeamish?" John shot back, noisily flopping down in his chair, then reaching over to pick up his teacup and saucer.

"I dislike the idea of being hanged," Sherlock glared at him sideways. "If that makes me squeamish, then I'll own to it."

"Don't know what you're so worked up about." John took a sip of tea. "It's not as if this is your first date or anything."

Sherlock cleared his throat, straightened and assessed the upper half of his sharp, tuxedo-clad figure. He did not look over at John. Still, he felt John's arms sag.

"Wait—is it? It isn't, is it?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

"It is!" John cried. "I can't believe it—really?"

Sherlock sighed laboriously.

"Nothing—I repeat, nothing—could prove to be more of a waste of my time than dabbling in casual dating. A lot of nonsense and play-acting, and for what? Nothing useful at all."

"Yeah, okay, going on a bunch of casual dates when you're a kid probably could be called a waste of time, sure," John said. "But at our age it isn't really casual anymore—I mean, I'd like to think I might meet a girl I could fall in love with—get married, have a family—"

"Why on earth would you want to do that?" Sherlock asked in disgust, turning sideways and glowering at his reflection.

John groaned.

"You're an idiot."

"Ah. He cannot come up with a viable counterattack, so he resorts to name-calling. Brilliant, John."

"You're still an idiot."

The grandfather clock in Mrs. Hudson's section of the house rang out a pensive seven o'clock.

"Better get going," John urged.

"Why?" Sherlock turned around and faced him. "We're not that far from her flat. The taxi will get me there in ten minutes, she'll get in and we'll be off five minutes earlier than we had planned—"

John was already shaking his head.

"What now? What?" Sherlock demanded.

"No, she'll not be ready by half seven, let alone five or ten minutes earlier than that."

"Whyever not?"

"Women take a long time," John explained. "Fixing their hair, their makeup, jewelry—"

"Like I said, nonsense," Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly, folding his arms.

"No, it's just the facts," John answered, folding his own arms but staying seated. "And for heaven's sake, do not just sit in the taxi and have him honk the horn at her."

Sherlock glanced off, unbalanced, then frowned at John.

"Is there…something I'm missing?"

"Yes," John sighed emphatically, gesturing as he talked. "Get out of the taxi, go up to her flat, and if she or her flatmate lets you in, go in and wait for her to get ready. When she comes into the room, give her the corsage—put it on her, rather—help her into her jacket, let her go out in front of you, open every single door for her, and do remember to give her your arm when you're going up steps so that she doesn't trip and fall over her long dress."

Sherlock stared at him woodenly, as if he had never seen him before.

"And…what is the point of all that?"

"Manners, Sherlock," John leaned toward him. "To be polite. She's your date."

"I've changed my mind," Sherlock said flatly, turning away. "A noose is quite appropriate for this occasion."

VVVVV

Sherlock stared out of the taxicab window as the night lights of London flashed past, the white carnation corsage in its box on the seat next to him. He laced his fingers together, squeezed, then rubbed one thumb hard against the other. Let go, closed his hands to fists, then gripped his fingers together again. Took a deep, but tight breath, then made his shoulders relax.

In no time at all, it seemed, the cab pulled up in front of Molly's building and stopped. Sherlock ground his teeth, closing his eyes briefly, then opened them and leaned toward the cabbie.

"Wait here. I'll just be a moment."

"Yes, sir," came the answer. Sherlock opened the door and swiftly climbed out, shut the door and adjusted his coat collar…

Turned back around, cursing at John under his breath, opened the door and retrieved the corsage. Slammed the door. He spun, huffed, and trotted up the stone steps and rang the bell. The brass peep-hole in the black-painted door eyed him disdainfully. He fought against making a face at it.

The next second, the latch worked loudly and the door swung open.

A young woman with flaming red hair, a face covered in freckles, and piercing green eyes stood within, dressed in gray sweatclothes. She glanced Sherlock up and down.

"You Molly's date?" she asked—and Sherlock could detect an edge in her tone. Sherlock drew himself up.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "And yes, I suppose I am her…" he glanced over the doorframe, the stoop, and then back at her. "…date." He faked another smile.

She watched him for a moment. Gave him a careful smile of her own. Held out her hand.

"I'm Jenny. Molly's flatmate."

Sherlock shook her hand. She nodded toward the entryway.

"Come in. She's still getting ready."

Sherlock stepped inside, following Jenny through a short, dim entryway. The door shut behind him. Jenny hurried up a short flight of steps that squeaked gratingly, and Sherlock trailed after her up into a mostly-white-furnished sitting room, with a line of windows straight ahead looking out over the back street. A lit fireplace and a telly stood to his right, a modest gray kitchenette off to his left, and doors to two separate bedrooms.

"Molly, he's here," Jenny called, striding in.

"I'll be right out," Molly's muffled voice answered. "Just pinning up this last bit."

Jenny turned and gave Sherlock a pointed look.

"You had better say something nice to her when she comes out," Jenny warned under her breath. "She's been working on herself for at least two hours."

Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that—so he didn't. Instead, he cast a hateful look down at the corsage box in his hand, then cast around at the various personal items in Molly's flat. Boring, boring, boring…

Hm. Strange.

His attention had just caught upon a crooked book case, and the peculiar pairing of Frankensteinand Pride and Prejudice sitting side by side, when one of the bedroom doors opened.

"All right, I think I'll do," Molly said, a little out of breath, and swept out into the sitting room.

Sherlock forgot about the books. And Jenny. And even the evil corsage.

The young woman who emerged wore a strapless, shimmering emerald dress that hugged her slender form and flattered it to its height—and the skirt flared out near the knees, reminiscent of a mermaid's fin. A sheer black-lace bolero jacket covered the ivory skin of her arms and back, and a dainty diamond necklace glittered at her throat. All of her softly-reddish hair had been piled on top of her head in seemingly careless yet perfect curls, with a few loose strands trailing down in the back. Long, sparkling droplet earrings made her neck look white and graceful, and she wore just enough makeup to make all her features glow, and to make Sherlock unable to look anyplace but her dark and dancing eyes.

Molly.

He thought her name—and he thought he commanded his mouth to say it. But nothing came out. Molly saw him, gave him a hesitant smile, and ducked her head.

"Come on then, twirl for me," Jenny urged, picking up a cup of coffee and leaning back against the counter.

"What?" Molly turned to her so that her earrings flashed like stars.

"Twirl," Jenny made just that motion with her finger. "We've got to see if this dress will do for dancing, after all."

"All right," Molly giggled, bent her arms at the elbows and risked a few spins.

The skirt flared out like a rapidly-opening flower, revealing her pale ankles and glittering silver shoes beneath. Sherlock swallowed. Something strange and uncomfortable was happening inside his chest.

Molly stopped, laughing, and briefly pressed her hand to her heart.

"Looks lovely, dear!" Jenny declared, smiling. "You'll be the belle of the ball." Jenny looked over at Sherlock. "All the other gentlemen will be jealous of you—you'll have to watch that she doesn't get stolen."

"Stop it, Jenny," Molly whispered—Sherlock saw her blush.

"I…erm…" Sherlock croaked, starting forward. He instantly halted, swallowed again, and gathered himself. "I brought this for you." He held out the corsage box.

"Oh!" Molly blinked at it, hesitated.

"Oh—yes," Sherlock stopped and popped the box open, and gingerly pulled out the flower. "It belongs on your wrist…I believe…" He almost just held it out to hand it to her, but she, beaming, reached out her left arm, palm down. Fumbling, Sherlock put the box down, stepped forward, stretched the band and slipped it around her hand, sliding it up to rest upon her wrist, having to use both his hands in the process. Her fingers felt soft, warm.

He secured the corsage firmly, then stepped back. She turned her hand back and forth, studying it, then looked up at him brightly.

"Thank you! It's very pretty."

Sherlock just nodded once, looking somewhere else.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"Sure," Molly said quickly. "Let me get my wrap…" She hurried to the closet, opened it and pulled out a long, black fleece cloak, then swung it around, put one arm through, then struggled to find the other arm.

Sherlock felt John spiritually slap him in the back of the head.

He strode forward, took hold of the cape and straightened it out so she could find the other arm hole, then helped it up onto her shoulders.

"Thank you," she smiled up at him again. "All set!"

He turned and took half a step toward the door. Stopped. Winced minutely. Then gestured out in front, indicating that she go first. Molly dipped her head and started forward, Sherlock following—and he sensed Jenny come right after him. When Molly started down the squeaky stairs, Jenny leaned toward Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well done. Couldn't have asked for a better compliment," she remarked. He shot a look down at her, readying to snap back at her about disobeying her earlier order…

He hesitated. Jenny just watched Molly, smiling, then gave Sherlock a warm look—entirely different from before. Not a trace of sarcasm. His brow furrowed.

"I didn't say anything," he reminded her.

She gave him a twinkling glance.

"Yes you did."

Sherlock straightened up and arched an eyebrow, eyeing her down his nose. She grinned.

"Have a good time!"

Sherlock broke away from her, not looking back, and charged down the stairs. Molly had already beaten him to opening the front door, but as they stepped outside, he pulled the door shut himself, and descended the steps beside her. Then, fearing another one of John's ghostly slaps, he pulled the taxi door open for her and waited for her to get in and get all of her skirts arranged before he shut the door. Impatiently, he swung around the back of the cab, pulled his own door open, climbed inside and slammed it shut.

"The Langham hotel, please," Sherlock told the driver, then adjusted the skirt of his coat.

"Rightoh," the cab driver agreed, put the car into gear and started off.

To be continued…

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